BEAST
by Ohsweeeet
Summary: He was a follower; a death eater, a monster--a beast. Old enough to kill. Young enough to get away with it. Sane enough to know it was wrong. Crazy enough to put himself to an end. - Set during the sixth book, HG/DM.
1. Prologue

disclaimer ; *sigh* i don't own harry potter.

- set at the sixth book, with my own little spin on it. i hope you like it ! review without hesitation : )

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**BEAST**

PROLOGUE

He was making his way throughout his home, his feet stumbling over one another—his arms reaching out to the walls surrounding him. His hands did his best to balance him as he kept walking. A small hissed voice in his head speaking violently to him. The voice getting louder with each step forward, a pain in his head began to pour in as he kept walking. He gritted his teeth at the pain, doing his best to walk out his home throughout the lack of light. He breathed in deeply, allowing the sound of his heartbeat pound against his ear drums. He breathed loudly, stomping his feet and slamming his fist against the wall. All this noise—to escape that voice in his head. The louder it got, the louder he walked off.

His body was tired—energy draining with each thought, each step and each _breath_. He shook his head and refused to stop, he needed fresh air. He needed to breathe easily. Smoothly. Naturally.

"_The Dark Mark is now yours to keep, Draco._"

"Shut up!" He screamed as he pushed forward.

"_Feel him in your veins, feel him watch you._"

He licked his lips and balls his fist, hitting the walls louder and stomping his feet harder. The noise making pops, smacks and it caused the house to slightly shudder.

"_You must do as the Dark Lord says, Draco. You must fulfill his needs. You must exceed his expectations of you. He chose you Draco. You are the chosen one_."

Voices began to mix with images. The noise he was making doing little to help him. He caught his breath and reached the doorknob. His energy was slowly being used up as he used his strength to open the door. He was never this weak. He was never this _fragile_. However the images were causing pain. The voices were causing pain. The dark mark resting silently on the back of his forearm was causing him pain. It stung as if he was burned for hours. The images and voices hurt more. They were so crisp and vivid. They did not fade. He came into realization that watching his mother become tortured and speak against her will—that vision will never fade. He will never wash out the way her lips moved in a non-familiar movement or the voice that slipped passed her lips. It wasn't her voice. It was cold, crisp and snake-like. It was processed.

"_You must help him come into view. You must make people fear his name. You must make people fear you_."

"Shut up," he said weakly.

The door opened and the cool summer breeze washed over him. His gray eyes were foggy as he exited his home. His vision blurred the sun began to fall and the dark sky began to return to its rightful spot. He kept his eyes forward as he made his way down his porch and through his front yard. Moving forward and taking breaths; it was as easy as that. Out of the house. Away from his mother. It was all he wanted. And he had it. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, however it did very little. He passed the gates that surrounded his large home, gates that locked him inside that specific piece of land. A piece of land he was happy to step off of.

He began to make his way onto the road. Crossing it without a care to look left and right. If he was to be hit by a car—all the images and voices would just fade. He would die. He would be gone.

However he made it across the road. He watched straight forward, forward to the woods—thick tall trees and leaves hung above him. He could feel his breath slow down as he got farther and farther away from his home. Despite the distance, the images and voices remained their intensity in his head. Clear as if they were happening right in front of him. Clear as if Narcissa Malfoy was speaking to her son all over again.

"_You must trust the Dark Lord. You must obey."_

Images of his mother floating before him, her hair wildly moving and her blue eyes turning a deep black. Her skin, paler than ever—and her breath sounding as if a snake was hissing at him. She seemed as if she was about to attack him. He was scared of his mother as she moved swiftly around him, her feet not touching the floor and her eyes watching his every movement. The two were alone, and he wasn't sure whether to run away our watch as his mother spiraled out of control. However he held a certain courage watching his mother that way. He held a protective trait. He held his wand up at her and tried to reverse the Imperius Curse she seemed to be under. There was no spell or charm he could remember, there was no way another thought but his processed mother would cross his mind. So instead he watched and listened. He watched as she gripped onto his left arm and scratch her nails down his forearm—blood trickling down and slowly taking the form of the Dark Mark.

He couldn't pull his head on right—he couldn't wrap around the idea he was in the woods and away from his home. All he saw was her. But he kept moving. He had to. He pushed away several low branches of trees.

"_You will forever obey to the Dark Lord. You must say it, Draco. You must give him your body, your soul, your life. Draco you must swear._"

"SHUT UP."

Slowly he felt his body collapse in front of a rather large leafless tree. His knees hid the ground and the images came to a stop as his vision blurred even further. With one blink, tears began to rapid fall. His vision was clear for seconds before more tears formed—the last thing he saw clearly was the snake and skull on his forearm. Tears fell again as he fought his way to breathe through his sobs and shaking body. He was now a beast.


	2. One: Hanging by a moment

hello there !

This chapter is a bit of just Harry's perspective. Although this is a Hermione and Draco story, i wanted to give a bit of everyone around him. How everything develops around him and what not, what people realize about him and what he realizes about others. I'm giving you an insight of other characters because in the end, it all ties to the tragedy of Draco Malfoy. Or not tragedy ? haha. Please bear with me, I'm still a bit new to writing Harry Potter fan fiction. **THANK YOU** to the people who have favorites, story alert & the amazingg one who sent a review. if you like it, PLEASE review. I wanted to make sure i'm satisfying you all just right. hehe.

DISCLAIMER; I do _not_ own harry potter. but Draco wants to do a re-count ;)

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**CHAPTER ONE.  
**

_Hanging on a moment_

"_Hide yourself Harry."_

_"Headmaster, I haven't seen my friends in months," Harry frowned. _

_"It's important to notice your surroundings," Dumbledore said as he summoned Harry's invisibility cloak from his trunk, "There are many different things you can view while in hiding."_

_"You've been telling me to hide all summer. To view things differently. I viewed everything I possibly can. I've been under this my whole summer," Harry gripped his cloak and shook his head. _

_"Which is all the reason why hiding for a few more hours completely harmless."_

_Harry opened his mouth to protest, however the old man pulled up his blackened hand, questions swirling about in Harry's head. With the other hand Dumbledore brushed his long silver gray hand from his blue eyes and shook his head. "From this point on, I ask of you to question me with larger importance's—therefore I can give you answers that satisfy you. For now, all I can give you is; Because I said so."_

**OOOO**

Harry James Potter was in hiding. He could hardly breathe another second underneath the thickness of his Invisibility cloak. Although the cloak was light—he still couldn't bear having it wrapped around himself. He had been under that cloak for far too long. It began to feel as if it were a second coat of skin, making him weaker with each moment he paced around the Weasley residence. September was beginning to silently get closer, ending the days of August. The summer sun, the freedom, and the happiness; he knew it was coming to an end. He refused to take his last week of school free vacation underneath the safety of his cloak. He refused to be taken town silently.

"_Because I said so_." Harry shook his head and allowed Dumbledore's voice to fade. Everything that happened prior to entering the Weasley home had faded. All he wanted was to catch a glimpse of his friends. Make sure they were okay. Make sure they still remembered him.

His footsteps made the mistake of making noise as he made his way up the zig zag spiral of stairs.

"Ronald?" Harry watched as Hermione slowly crept outside of her room. He caught a glimpse of a red head sleeping soundlessly on a bed that leaned against the closest end of the wall. The door closed and Ginny Weasley was no one in sight. She was walking as if she was on air, the tips of her toes lingering slightly as they tip-toed up the zig zag stairs that connected each seven floors of the house. He followed her and held his breath, careful to step exactly in her footsteps making sure not to make the floorboards creak. There was very little light surrounding them and he hoped for Hermione to cast a _Lumos_ and give them both a sense of direction. However it was as if Hermione knew exactly where she was walking—she knew each floorboard well. He had no doubt she'd been sneaking to Ron's room for the past couple of weeks she stayed there.

He greatly envied her availability and freedom. She easily traveled to the Weasley's without much of a trouble. Harry, instead—had to sneak out of his home in Little Whinging. Harry, unlike Hermione, flew his way to the Weasley's. He bit his lip from cursing and followed Hermione into Ron's room. It felt wrong to listen in on their conversation, a conversation he wasn't invited too. He wondered if they would have invited him into the conversation if they had known he had arrived at the Burrow.

"Psst," Hermione hissed. There was no movement. "Ronald, wake up." And silence again. "Psst!" a whirling sound gave out and it smacked lightly against an object. Harry counted the seconds before his red-headed friend turned on the light. In two, he watched as the light erupted in the room.

"Blimey," Ronald Bilius Weasley gritted his teeth and rubbed his temple, "Have you lost your mind Hermione?"

"Sorry Ronald," she mumbled, "But you weren't going to wake any other way."

"A gentle rub would've done it just perfectly, thanks," Ron narrowed his eyes.

The two were in complete silence, their thoughts absorbing in the air. Harry resisted the urge to yell at them to speak. Yell for some noise. He merely gripped onto his cloak tighter. He scanned the room and let out an inaudible sigh. Posters of Ron's favorite Quidditch team were scattered about over his walls. The colors of the Chudley Cannons posters seemed to play off as if it were the natural paint of his room. The separation of each poster made it easy to figure out the true color of his walls; a pale beige.

Ron hadn't changed much from the last time Harry saw him. His hair was a bit longer, framing his head. His nose was still long, his lips were still a pink-ish color, freckles still rested across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and his eyes were still a gentle blue. Hermione, on the other hand, had grown taller, although compared to his and Ronald's height, she was still rather petite. Her hips were curved, her brown hair seeming to be tamed and no longer resembled a bird's nest; her eyes seemed to be a lighter brown—specks of honey flickering at Ron. Harry had never been this close to Hermione, seeing as she made sure she kept a certain distance between the two. He took a couple of soft steps back as she moved closer to Ron. She took a comfortable seat on his bed.

"Well," Hermione's voice was rather prim, "Have you found out anything new?"

"About V-V-Vold," Ron was having trouble speaking the name.

"Voldermort."

"Merlin's beard Hermione," he raised up his hand, "_Please_."

His fear of the Dark Lords name caused Harry's stomach to twist. The three of them have faced death and danger many times in their years of friendship. However to be reminded that his best mate was scared of just saying the name shook him. Was Ron going to back out if Voldermort attacked Harry? Was Ron a cowardly git? Harry shook the thoughts on his doubt of his friend and listened on. He was relieved to hear the name slip out of Hermione's lips—at least she was not scared.

"No, I haven't," Ron shook his head, "No one speaks of _you-know-who_ when we're around."

"It's quite sickening," Hermione spat, "They expect us to just stand back and _silently_ make our way back into our rooms. Everyone expects us to just give up. We know more than they will ever know—if you put your mind to it, I mean, we know Harry better than anyone else. If there's anything we should be given, its information."

"You put far too much effort into finding research than I do 'Mione," Ron said with a small voice.

"Does that bother you?"

"Yes," he started before she could defend herself, "I don't want to be the useless git in the friendship anymore. I want to save people—stop things from happening. Maybe help take the pressure of Harry's shoulder while I'm at it. Yours too—maybe I can pick up a book or two."

Harry felt a wave of an unknown emotion. Happiness? Relief? Comfort?

"No one expects you to do that all at once Ronald," Hermione's tone was smooth.

"No one expects anything of me." Ron's voice was acidic. "They all expect Harry to just finish off that psychopathic excuse for the _Dark Lord_. Merlin—even Harry expects he'll be doing that on his own. I'm not worthless Hermione. At least, I reckon I'm not."

"You aren't," she said reassuringly, "You were always amazing and brave when the time came."

"Then why must Harry insist he can do this on his own all the time? He must know we are a waste of time. Worthless, we are."

Harry wanted to protest. Hermione beat him too it. "Worthless? Must you doubt our skills? My skills? I haven't gone through half of the library and all of the restricted section for _nothing_. I haven't written all the plans and organized all our thoughts on a piece of parchment for _fun_. Have you forgotten how easily I can hex you Ronald? Do not push my limits here. Do not doubt what I'm capable of."

"I didn't mean to," Harry was taken aback by the sincerity in Ron's voice. He expected a fight. He expected them to scream and shove words down the throats of one other. Instead Ron retreated and leaned against the wooden headboard of his bed. "It's just…you've got your intelligence and skills, Harry's got this whole '_The Chosen One,_' thing going on—plus he's stared death in the face for far more times than a sixteen year old should and what have I got?"

Hermione was silent. Harry's eyes narrowed willing for her to say something. Instead he watched as she pulled her arm towards Ron's hand. "You've faced death too, Ron."

"A mere coincidence." He said bitterly, "I should've died along the way anyways. Save Harry the burden of worrying over another death than his own."

"Don't say things like that," Hermione warned.

"The thing is, I'd be willing to die for that stubborn git I call my friend," his voice was cracking and his becoming uneasy. Ron's blue eyes flashed to the wall Harry leaned himself against, the color darkening and fogging at the very sting of tears, "But what good would that do? I was never really anyone's favorite anyways. Should've just killed myself before anyone had a chance to be disappointed."

Harry shook his head. Hermione took Ron's body and pressed it against hers. Her arms wrapped around him whether or not he favored being this close to her. This is what they did when Harry was not around. Ron fell apart in front of Hermione, doubting himself—and Hermione had built him back up. It was what best friends did and he was feeling rather useless himself for the fact that he was barely ever around to see his friends break. He was far too busy hiding from Voldermort or plotting ways to expose him to even put his friend's feelings into consideration. He did consider their deaths—he would never allow them to die on his watch. He always felt rather selfish for bringing them along to his foolish adventures. However to hear they were willing to die for Harry was a different story. He could reveal himself, he thought, but he could only imagine Ron straighten his back and act as if nothing was wrong. He remained underneath his cloak and listened to Hermione murmur gentle comforting words. If it were the three of them, Harry knew, he would just be watching as he was now. He was never good with words.

After a few more words and rubs on the back, Ron's head removed from Hermione's neck. "Ronald, listen to me—you are not worthless. You are not a waste of oxygen. You're my best friend and I will not allow you to say these things about yourself. Do you see what's happening? Voldermort wants you to feel that way. He wants all of us to feel that way. I bet he wants us to give up. Let Harry stand alone. You can't let yourself give up. Every little thing we do to help Harry is significant."

"Says you," Ron replied.

"Don't even try with me Ronald Weasley."

"I just want this whole war rubbish to end," he sighed, "A normal life is greatly needed."

"Normal doesn't involve when Voldermort still lives."

"Ugh," Ron shuddered a bit at the name, "Why must it be our generation to go through this?"

Hermione spoke Harry's thoughts, "It's harder on Harry more than anyone else."

After a long pause Ron nodded, "Your right."

"About what?"

"Everything."

"Everything I've just said?" She raised an eyebrow.

"About everything we've been talking about the past few weeks." He shook his head with disbelief, "I'm an oaf to think I was irrelevant in this war."

"Must you always insult yourself?"

"Might as well before someone else does," he said with his hand scratching the back of his neck, "But your right Hermione. We can't let Harry do this alone."

"Merlin," she breathed, "I hope he isn't sitting up in his bed thinking he should go through all this alone again."

"Maybe we should kidnap him and beat him senseless before he goes through that awful phase again," Ron caused Hermione to laugh, "We're his best mates—he can't honestly think we're going to push him in front of _you-know-who_ by himself and make a run for it."

The two began to laugh at the thought. A forceful tug came from the corners of his mouth, pulling and forming into an ear to ear smile. His eyes felt as if they were being threatened by tears. He wanted to hug them.

_"Mum!"_ A female voice was heard levels below them, "_When did Harry get here?"_

Harry felt a rush of panic as Hermione and Ron slipped out of his room quickly. He felt his cloak swish as Hermione's hand grazed against his leg. She stopped and stared at the wall, seeing right passed him.

"Hermione," Ron pulled her hand, "Come on."

She shrugged and followed. The two leaned against the banister, leaning forward to look straight down to the ground floor. Ginny smiled at the two, her fierce red hair cascading down her shoulders and stopping mid-back. Her eyes were a brilliant brown, such life and energy. Harry began to make his way down slowly, careful not to step to loud or the floorboards might creak. His eyes were kept on her as he stepped down, the closer he got the easier it was to view the youngest Weasley. Her smile was exciting to him. Her body was a rather small, her nose resembling a bunny's and her lips were a natural color of pink.

"_Harry?_" Harry twisted around, staring as Molly Weasley made her way down the stairs. He hurriedly moved down before she collided against him. He ran himself to the kitchen and found himself face to face with Hedwig; the Owl stared straight at him and began to chew the bars of it's cage. He stared as his trunk and broom lay on the kitchen floor. "_Harry who?"_

"As in, Harry Potter of course." There was a certain pride in Ginny's voice as she spoke to her mother. Harry pulled off his cloak and gently folded it on top of the his trunk. "His trunk is right there. In the kitchen."

"I would very well know if Harry potter was wandering about in my own house." Molly said making her way towards the kitchen.

"Hello," Harry said a bit timidly, his hand waving.

"Oh dear!"

"Is that Harry I just heard?" Hermione came into the kitchen, Ron and Ginny following. The smiles on their faces seemed to grasp his heart. He didn't dare breath or blink—scared it was all just a dream. Without hesitation she gasped, almost identical to Molly's and wrapped her arms around his neck. She spoke quite quickly, her words blending in with the others as she pulled back. He could notice her lips moving but he didn't hear much. It was if he didn't understand. He figured it was due to her quick speaking. Ron pulled him into an embrace, his lips moving but words coming out inaudible. His smile was numbing, nonetheless. All he could hear is his pounding heartbeat. Continuously.

Ginny was the last to pull Harry's body close. Her voice was the first to break through his pounding heart. "Welcome back Harry."

He breathed. It was real.


	3. Two: Restless Heart Syndrome

hello there !

Here goes some good `ol Draco Malfoy suffering.

_**THANK YOU**_ the toe reviewers, favoriters, and anyone who had story alerted me. Please--if you read, **_review_**_. _

**DISCLAIMER;** I do _not_ own harry potter. but Draco wants to do a re-count ;)

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**CHAPTER TWO.  
**

_Restless Heart Syndrome  
_

They were all so amazed; elated at the young boy that sat at the far end of the table. Their eyes were glazed over with happiness—all the emotions in the air mixing and blending, pouring out to him. Their mouths were opened; all their words overlapping with each other. He tried to listen. He tried to ignore his rather loud breathing and listen to them. All these beasts. All these death eaters.

Draco Malfoy stared down at his food, grimaced as a loud uproar of laughter escaped Fenrir Greyback's throat. He gripped his fork tightly and stabbed his dinner, pushing it forward and back on his plate. The attention felt like a searing pain going through his bloodstream. All the eyes, all the focus—it was all on him. They would all glance down at his forearm, admire the dark mark and smile deeply. Their eyes would focus on it, wishing they were the one at the head of the table, basking in all the attention. However Draco Malfoy was not basking in the spotlight. He was merely sitting there, his eyes on his food and his mind elsewhere. Far away from that table. Far away from the beasts.

"What was it like, my dear nephew, to feel it for the first time?" Bellatrix Lestrange pursed her lips. They were dark, just as everything else she wore. Her eyes were dark—framed by black eye shadow and dark eyelashes. She batted them as she smacked her tongue against her lips. Her eyes held a rather maddening look. He silently began to wonder if he would began to age just as her. If he would go to Azkaban just as her. He took a deep breath before answering her. Speaking the lines he had rehearsed so diligently in front of his mirror.

"I felt alive," his voice came off hoarse—for he had not spoken much at all that day.

"Tell me, was it painful?" Antonin Dolohov asked, a certain twisted happiness dancing about in his dark green eyes, a smile playing about on his lips.

"Did you feel the dark lord in your veins?" Amycus Carrow asked.

Lucius Malfoy looked proudly over his son, his own silver eyes holding that certain twisted happiness Dolohov harbored. He pulled his hand forward and swiftly moved it towards his guests, urging Draco to speak.

"It was an excruciating pain," Draco explained, "As if being struck my lightening—but knowing your alive, you feel re-birthed."

"The Dark Lord," Bellatrix sighed deeply with a certain romantic look in her eyes, "what a giving man, he is."

"The time he has given you to join us is phenomenal," Greyback slide his tongue over his top set of sharp teeth and shook his head, "I would give anything to feel the pain of getting the dark mark all over again."

"Narcissa, dear sister, how did it feel to be possessed?" Bellatrix flashed her eyes towards his mother, "To have his magic in your veins."

"Fulfilling," Narcissa said in a monotone, her lips in a straight line, "Purely amazing. I am honored."

He didn't dare look at her. He didn't care much to listen to the tone of her voice, or meet her eyes. He couldn't bear the thought of his mother enjoying the excruciating pain of being controlled—handled. He couldn't grasp the idea of his mother enjoying his _pain_. He was haunted by that memory. And with that, he pushed himself from the table and bade everyone goodnight—showing them the Dark Mark one more time for their entertainment.

His house was darkening within every step he took farther from the dining room. With hesitation he turned back, relieved to see he was truly alone. For the first time that day, he was alone. He sighed deeply and ran his fingers through his gelled back hair—hard and slick it felt. He lowered his hands to his collar, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt and slipping his fingertips to his tie, sliding his finger through the bump and loosening it, it hung gently from his neck—swinging as he began to slip through the darkened hallways and up the stairs. He ignored the paintings of his family and late family members; they were speaking however he was doing very little to try and listen. His neck let out a crack as it turned from left to right, the muscles seeming to release from the tight spots. He held tightly to the banister, scared his weakened body would slip and slide down the stairs. He wondered if that would do the trick to end everything. However something as naïve as falling down a flight of stairs would hardly kill him; a house full of skilled wizards and witches would surely flick their wands and the wounds would go away. Killing himself would be much more difficult.

The thought of death seemed to cross him often.

He entered his bedroom and he closed the door; bringing up his wand and locking it magically. Quietly he undressed himself as he walked slowly to his bed. His tie was released from its knot, hanging loosely from his neck. His fingertips lingered on the fabric of his shirt, the buttons easily slipping from their holes and air trickling down his chest as his shirt gradually fell from his sleek broadened shoulders. He held out his arms and allowed the sleeves to slip and easily the shirt was off and lay gently on the ground. He pulled his wand from his back pocket and threw it towards his bed, allowing his pants to be next to slip from his body. All these clothes felt to suffocate him—cage him, just like his home and the company around him. He swallowed and muttered the name of his house-elf.

"Luple."

With a crack his eyes were staring down at the wrinkled dirty face of his elf.

"Prepare my bath."

"Yes, master," Luple nodded, his large ears flopping against the side of his head, "Luple will prepare masters bath." He repeated the words and disapparated from Draco.

Draco moved towards the far end of his room, hearing the water rush down into his bathtub, Luple's high voice repeated Draco's order—as if he would forget. Draco slipped his finger between his belt and slipped it from its loops and pulled it off from his waist. His pants were beginning to fall slightly, it's buttons and zipper keeping themselves from falling from his hips. He ran his hands down his arms and moved into the bathroom, his pants now off him and resting silently in between his bathroom floor and his bedroom floor. The more skin that was bared, the more the air attached onto his skin. It was a delightful feeling—he almost felt _free_. He stared down at his bathtub, watching as the water filled at the top and bubbles surfacing the area. He waved his hand at Luple, a silent _leave_ escaping his lips. Luple said no word, knowing the less that was said was better with Draco. He slipped his last piece of clothing off before entering the hot bathtub.

Without hesitation he dropped his head down under the water. No breath taken. No hands over the edge. His eyes opened as he began to realize he needed air. He watched as the bubbles moved above him, the rays of light shining just above him. He wondered if he should grasp the edge of the tub and inhale. He wondered if he deserved it. His eyes wandered to his forearm and the dark mark stared back at him—the snake slithered up his arm, leaving the skull and wrapping its way up his arm and towards his neck. He could no longer view the snake. He could no longer care where it went. He could feel it slither around his neck and tighten. His vision began to blacken.

His heart beat slowed down. Almost to a stop.

He closed his eyes and everything began to resurface. He was no longer in his bathtub. He was no longer surrounded by hot water. Instead—he was in front of his mother again. He held his hand out and noticed they were smaller. He stretched his fingertips and pulled his arms out, stretching them as well. He felt younger---he was younger. He looked up at his mother; radiant, smiling and happy. She wore a white dress, the skirt of it flowing in the air as she twirled and twirled. He opened his mouth, calling out for her and she stopped. Slowly she got closer—and he found himself smiling as well, no longer scared of her. Her beauty seemed to wash it all away. Her blonde hair flew away from her face and she scooped up her son in her arms. There was no music and yet she still twirled, dancing to the sound of leaves rustling.

And suddenly her mouth opened, words spilling from her mouth in that sickening snake-like voice. Her grip on him began to tighten. Her eyes dark and beady. He tried to wither from her grasp, scream and call from help. Her twirls were spiraling out of control—her eyes never leaving his. She was transforming. Her skin shedding and something new emerged. Cold gray skin. Her eyes narrowing and now were behind slits. Her hair began to fall from her scalp and a new bare head.

Voldermort. The Dark lord. His mouth opened, and Narcissa Malfoy no longer seemed to exist. Suddenly, it was as if Draco was no longer in his own body—watching from above instead. Suddenly, Draco was not young. Suddenly, Draco was free falling towards Voldermort and the younger him, his arms out trying to grab the two. Instead, he flew right passed.

"You must _obey_ me."

A breath of air. All he needed was to _breathe_.

"…_Master_!"

A sound.

"_Master Draco_!"

His name.

A pair of wrinkled hands slid down to his chest, words murmuring. He held onto the sound. He tried to grab onto the sound. He didn't want to fall. He didn't want to _see_ the Dark Lord. He wanted to escape. The sound seemed to glaze over him body, carry him back—and suddenly, he began choking. Gasping. A heart beat rising.

"Master Draco? Is you breathing, Master Draco? Am I saving you? Is you saved?"

He body shot forward. Eyes opening. Luple before him. His wide eyes stared at Draco. Scared. Trembling. Draco was no longer in the bathtub. His body on the bathroom floor, the tiles cold against his skin, the dark mark in its natural state; on his forearm--the snake unmoved. He wondered if he was imagining things. Crazy, as he was afraid. He kept his gaze away from Luple; the elf that seemed to save him. The elf that saw Draco Malfoy _weak_. He couldn't feel. He was numb. He noticed his hands shake as the began to gain back its feeling. The more he breathed, the more he was aware of the situation. A house elf _saved_ him. Oh, how _weak_ Draco felt. How weak he _was_.

"Leave."

Luple hesitated. And a growl erupted from the back of Draco's dry throat. "I do _not_ need any of your _damn_ assistance. Now **leave**."

A crack was all it took to leave the weak Draco alone.

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review ?


	4. Three: Sympathy

hello there !

This one is from Hermione's point of view. A little bit of Malfoy in there, mysterious little one. haha.

_**THANK YOU**_ to the reviewers, favoriters, and anyone who had story alerted me. Please--if you read, **_review_**_. _

**DISCLAIMER;** I do _not_ own harry potter. but Draco wants to do a re-count ;)

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE.  
**

_Sympathy  
_

Hermione held her umbrella tightly above her head, her eyes narrowing as she moved through Diagon Alley. Despite the rain, it was rather busy that day—children from Hogwarts running up and down Diagon Alley, jumping from one store to the next. She avoided any collisions and kept to herself, muttering slightly as the crowd thickened and thinned throughout her walk through. Her hair was frizzy, escaping her thick gentle curls and replacing them with a frizzy untamable mane. She slipped her fingers upwards towards her hair and tugged on the knit barrette Molly made for her during last year Christmas. It slightly hid her hair and flattened the top of her hair; preventing her thick mass of curls to grow. She gritted her teeth and closed the umbrella, a small wooden store before her.

She began to slip into the one of the smallest stores in Diagon Alley. _Raven Rowlers Book Shop_. The store was rather intimate; dimly lit with tables made out in the middle, rows of books on shelves piling up just feet away. She tapped her umbrella with her wand and watched the water drip away. She breathed in the musky old scent of the book shop and exhaled, content with the fact she was alone for the first time that day. The doorbell rang lightly as it opened and closed.

This was the second day left for Hogwarts students to get their books, robes, cauldrons, and other school necessities. Days of the summer were quickly passing them by, and students were going to pile into the Hogwarts Express in no time. Hermione sighed and did her best not to bitterly think about going back to school; she could only imagine the surprised look on her friends faces when they hear she'd much rather stay up late and talk to Ronald Weasley. She shook her head, pushing farther the fact that their friendship has strengthened throughout the summer.

She shrugged off her coat and pulled it over the back of a chair, admiring the way several others were hunched over their books, the candles on the tables lit up and the chandeliers hovering above them. She put her umbrella on the seat of the chair and took one last glance at the fellow readers.

She began to stroll down the aisles of books, her small beaded bag held tightly in one hand as the other ran its fingers gently down the spines of each book she passed, the names of the books slipping from her lips. There was no specific book she was searching for, though one that held useful charms and spells were among the vast list in her mind. Maybe something that fell along the lines of Defense against the Dark Arts. With the teaching she received last year, she knew she was going to need it if she wanted to get through the class. She passed a few romance and mystery novels before moving towards the educational portion of the shop. She felt an air of relief as the words _dark arts_ were written above the shelves. She dropped down on her knees and rested her bag on the ground, gently pulling books from their place.

**_History of the Dark Arts._**

**_Dark Arts: Charms Edition._**

**_Knowledge of Dark Arts; Spells, Charms, Hexes, Curses, and Jinxes._**

**_Dark Arts Spells and Their Specialties._**

**_Origin of Spells._**

Quietly, opened each book and spread them out before her. Her eyes moved from book to book, brown meeting black and white—some pages aged to a cream and even a yellowish or brown color. Most of the information given to her were things she's already studied; some were a special case where the spells she's never heard of. Gruesome some were. She felt chills run down her spine as she read through random pages of each book; **_Dark Arts and Their Specialties_** seemed to praise the creators and the way their spells were used.

**_Dark Arts: Charms Edition_** stated facts. Opinions didn't leak from the book, unlike the other. She leaned closely and narrowed her eyes reading the small print. The Charms seemed to have the same origin of the charms she had learned in Hogwarts, some words changed and some words seemed to have to be pronounced different to create the dark effect. It shook her to know that the slightest chance in pronunciation would change the whole effect of a certain charm. All this time in class she could've easily created a simple object to become a dark murderous object. She wondered if she never tutored Ron and Harry—if their objects would've become deadly. It made sense why Professor Flitwick did his best to show the class just exactly how to pronounce a certain charm, or why Neville's feather blew up in his face the first day of class.

**_History of the Dark Arts_** exuded appreciation. Each sentence of every paragraph praised their creators—maybe even more than **Dark _Arts and Their Specialties._** The author held a certain twisted insight on the spells. She bit her lip as she read on about the unforgiveable curses; The Cruciatus, The Imperius, and The Killing Curse. They seemed to be created by two wizards and one witch. Upon accident, they spoke the words vaguely, but created an effect. Then again they recited the curses, clearly, and begun their research; testing out the curses on Muggles—using them as test subjects for every dark spell they begun to create. She felt a shock of electricity go through her blood, nothing less than pure disgust.

Footsteps were heard just behind her, shoes brilliantly shining as they tapped against the wood beneath them. She watched in amazement, following the long lean legs that were covered in a pair of black trousers. A white button down appeared, the sleeves rolled up to elbows and a tie loosely hanging from the neck. From below, the man looked strong, but as he head slowly dropped she could tell from the dark circles he was tired. As he got closer she kept her eyes on him. A head of slightly shaggy blonde hair covered his face; the blonde so light—almost platinum or white blonde. His skin was rather pale, holding little color. A wand was held in his hand farthest from her, along with a book, his head looking up as he passed Hermione. Quickly he passed her.

The light surrounding them blended in his eyes. The silver color now visible for her to see. The define jaw line and tipped upwards nose was familiar and he looked back, his eyes down at Hermione. Eyes tired; maybe even _tortured_, sad—however she refused to go that far for the pure-blood before her.

_Draco Malfoy_. She pulled her eyes away from him and shook her head. Why was she so surprised to see him here? She took a breath and shook her head; it was the last days of summer of course he was going to provide himself with books. She pulled her head away from its lowered spot and stared at the book in his hand. He was walking further away and the name of the book was far from her sight—his arm covering have of the book. The colors, however, were identical to **_History of the Dark Arts_. **She dropped her brown eyes back down to the book before her, as well as the other Dark Arts books before her. The doorbell rang lightly, indicating someone had left abruptly. She didn't dare look up, afraid Draco Malfoy was watching her.

However, he didn't speak an insult at her—was he avoiding her as well? Curiosity pulsed through her veins.

She piled the books together and pulled her beaded bag on top of them. She could barely see her path clearly; trying to direct herself through the aisles and toward the register. Finally she reached the small front counter and plopped her books down.

"All these?" The old wizard looked at her with slightly widened eyes, the green irises now surrounded by a larger portion of the whites of his eyes.

"Yes," she pulled her bag from the top and pulled out her small woven pouch that held her galleons, "May I have a bag?"

"Of course."

He pulled his thin wand from behind the register and tapped the books; a bag appearing from the top and the books from the bottom slipping gently into the bag. The bag seemed to be charmed to be enlarged on the inside—seeing as the books did not bulge or create a problem of the bag's size.

"Thirty galleons," he spoke clearly as he handed her the bag. She slipped the handles through her wrist, the fabric of the bag was delightfully soft. The bag seemed to have weight to only one book, despite the five that hid inside.

She counted the galleons and put them on the counter; not even a grimace as she emptied half of her pouch. Money didn't matter to her when it came to books. She grabbed her coat from the chair she settled it on and pulled it back on and grabbed her umbrella. Without hesitation she left the store, gripping her bags and the umbrella in her hand.

The rain greeted her as she began to yet again push passed her way through the crowd. As she entered back into the busy streets of Diagon Alley, she searched through the windows of the stores for the familiar clan of red heads and the raven haired boy that accompanied them.

**ooo**

"So Draco was in…a book shop?" Ronald asked Hermione, his blue eyes narrowing as he eyed the bag that was settled on top of the table the two of them sat at. She sighed impatiently and tapped her fingers against the **_History of Dark Arts_** book.

"You needed to be there," Hermione lifted the cover of the book up and down, "It's more than the fact he was in a book shop."

"It's not that uncommon for him to be in a bookstore 'Mione, we _are_ a day away from September." He ran his hand through his red hair, his nose crinkling as a waitress passed him with a platter of food.

"Let's just wait for Harry," she readjusted her hat and watched as their waitress placed three butterbeers before them. Her eyes lifted and noticed Ron was staring, "What?"

"You seem so flustered by this," he said softly, "I just thought…nothing. Never mind."

"What? What are you getting at Ron?" She felt herself ready to snap at him, as if she was a rubber band being pulled and ready to set its flying course.

Harry returned to the two, his glasses fogging as he entered the warm pub. He took a seat beside Hermione. However she went on, "Hmm Ronald?"

"It's just—what if the war began tomorrow?" Ron said in a small voice, "I don't want to see you like this. You look out of your element."

"The war started _way_ before we were born Ron," opening the book she glared at the name of the author, "Ervin Eaglewood—this…this…_git_."

"History of the Dark Arts?" Harry looked at the old looking book. "Was that on the list of book we needed? I haven't seen it in Flourish and Blotts."

"She picked it up by that beaten down store," Ron nodded towards the left, "The last one at the end of Diagon Alley."

"Flourish and Blotts were too crowded to have a look around huh Hermione?" Harry teased lightly as he grabbed a cup and sipped the liquid.

"They didn't have many Defense against the Dark Arts books," Hermione said slightly embarrassed.

"You probably read them all," Ron mumbled.

"Stop it," She finally snapped—the rubber band flying. "Listen, I saw Draco at Raven Rowlers."

Much to Ron's dismay, Harry's ears perked up and Hermione continued. "Alone. When do you ever see Draco Malfoy _alone_?"

"That is a bit odd," Ron agreed, trying to keep on Hermione's good side.

"He was holding this book," she pointed at hers, "It's quite sick, actually."

"Malfoy?" Ron asked.

"The book, Ronald—please doesn't interrupting me," Hermione tried her best to keep herself from snapping at him, "Listen to this: _The three creators strengthened their skills, and begun their research on the unforgiveable curses, testing on unworthy Muggles. Olivia Salamander tested her Imperius curse, Muggles filing before her obeying the commands that she thought of, and finishing them off by directing them towards a ledge outside her home."_

She paused, that shock of disgust running through her veins. Ron pulled his hand over hers and urged her to go on. "_Sav Aldred used the Imperius to gather a set of his own Muggles, and began testing The Cruciatus curse. **Crucio **began to torture the Muggles, driving them to the ground—their weak bodies turning fragile as many of them gave up their lives, and some foolishly brave ones gripping the ground, clawing to crawl away however in seconds they were lifeless, ground into the grass they tried to dig under. The term Mudblood had also been created by Aldred._

_"Magoon Dugan, the oldest of the trio had used both methods from Salamander and Aldred. Penetrating the disgraceful minds of the Muggles. Oldest and strongest, Magoon was, he held power over the muggles, torturing the strongest with his Killing Curse. Avada Kedavra. He left the muggles before his feet, dead."_

The three were quiet. Their vocabulary escaping them. Silently, Hermione gripped her butterbeer and drowned empty mouth. The other two following shortly—stealing glances at the only Muggle in The Leaky Cauldron; Hermione Jean Granger.

* * *

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	5. Four: Flightless bird

hello there !

halfway, a bit of ron's point of view & then hermione's point of view. a little bit of a filler chapter - but bear with me..

_**THANK YOU**_ to the reviewers, favoriters, and anyone who had story alerted me. Please--if you read, **_review_**_. _

**DISCLAIMER;** I do _not_ own harry potter. but Draco wants to do a re-count ;)

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_Flightless Bird_

"Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," Harry stared in amusement at the colorful store before him. Lights flashed and a small Hogwarts Express replica had trailed along the large clown at the top of the store. The move opened and closed as the mini-train speed into the mouth hitting the teeth—a puff of smoke released from the clown's nose and the train appeared at the tip of the store, cascading down from the tracks that were set up to once again go through and around the clown. "They really put a lot of thought into the store, huh?"

"Good to know they spent their money wisely," Hermione's eyes flashed the colors of the lights that went on and off—blues and greens reflecting from her brown eyes. Ron licked his lips as her stared at the colors from her eyes, admiring the way her lips curved into a quaint smile. Her teeth were lined perfectly; a change from the awkward way the two front teeth were larger than the others. Nonetheless, she was pretty in his eyes. Though, admitting it was a bit of a problem. He bit his bottom lip at her lips; he had watched them for the half of his summer—to see them not moving was a change, for he had never surveyed them as closely as he did that day.

"Do you suppose Fred and George will give me a discount?" Ginny asked, staring lively at the display of candy behind the glass window of the store. "I'm their favorite, after all."

Hermione's lips moved and he blinked, the image of her still figure fading into the usual movements of her laughing self. She pulled her arm over his sister and whispered something into her ear—the two laughing hysterically. He sighed and stuffed his hands in his empty pockets. Her happiness was rare to come by these days. Her smile was either forced or small. The rare moments where her lips fully emerged into an ear to ear smile, he found himself drawn to it. He directed his gaze to Harry, shaking his head.

"It's probably the butterbeer," Harry shrugged.

"Maybe," Ron watched as the two girls entered the store before them, he leaned closer to Harry his voice lowered, "In all honesty, Ginny is probably the favorite."

"Oh, don't think of that mate," Harry cracked a small teasing smile, "You do know them longer than she does."

"A year," Ron scoffed, a laugh escaping.

"A year of sibling bonding." Harry moved his way towards the door, holding it for a couple of familiar Ravenclaws.

"Oh I'm sure drooling on their coloring books was such a touching sibling bonding," Ron rolled his eyes and followed Harry into the store. "They declared war in their sick little heads that day. Such _bonding_."

Harry muffled his laugh as his finger swiped underneath his nose, the sound fading as the crowd in the store registered in Ron's head. Several, "_Hey let me see that!"_ and "_Wow that's cool!"_ had emerged from the customers roaming around. He followed his friend as he walked through, scanning the store—absentmindedly searching for flaws. The store had been three stories high, a flight of stairs guiding the customers up and down the levels. The store was, to Ron's surprise, thought out and organized. Shelves had fit against the walls, from the bottom of the shop to the ceiling. Bins and containers of objects stacked neatly in the shelves. Circular tables were scattered across the store, products piled perfectly in a circle around the tables. Labels held higher than the stacks of each product were in the middle of the tables. Random lights flashed throughout the store—catching his attention quickly. He tried to follow each light as they flashed and flashed. He felt his eyes begin to water and quickly he blinked.

No flaws. Ron refrained from huffing. He stopped, staring at the stock of cakes that were piled up on one of the tables. The colors of the cakes were organized by color—the aroma of the sweetness wafted into his nose. He slipped three into his hand, turning back towards the stairs and noticed Harry had walked on without him.

A small noise came from behind him as he took his first step. A slightly squeaky voice, speaking his name. He turned slowly to notice Lavender Brown—whom he remembered to be Hermione's roommate. Her hair was a mixture of blonde and brown, her eyes large and green blue, and her lips were slightly thin. She repeated herself, nervously, "Hi Ron."

The thought of Hermione's roommate encouraged him to look for her. In a rush he replied, "Hey Lav." Leaving her at the bottom of the stairs, he moved upwards, avoiding contact with the younger years surrounding him. He could faintly hear the sound of his older brother's voices—advertising some of their products.

"Oi!" Ron called out for them as he reached the third floor, "Fred! George!"

"Darling, darling little brother," Fred turned first, his long red hair passing his eyebrows. George turned next, his hair passing his eyebrows completely and were shifted to his right—preventing from the locks of hair getting to his eyes.

"Ooh our Color Creator Cauldron Cakes," George locked his arm over Ron's head, locking his eyes with his twin before Fred followed. "That'll be two galleons and four sickles, little brother."

"But I'm your _brother_," Ron protested, pulled his head from their tight lock, his hair now ruffled and out of place. Blue met blue and the twins locked eyes—contemplating something Ron could only hope is reconsideration.

"Four galleons."

"I loathe you both," Ron spat, making his way towards the stairs, looking for his friends, "I can't wait till you kill each other."

"This lovely money maker?" The two said in unison.

Ron rolled his eyes as the two brothers complimented each other skillfully. The familiar dark blue color of Hermione's barrette in view on the second floor. Her eyes were staring out the window, her hand holding one of the twin's creations. He walked down to the second level and to her side, silently placing his hand at the small of her back. Warm and gentle. "The twins are giving me a head ache." He stated plainly.

"Wanna leave?" She turned to him, a bit of a smile on her lips.

"Let's find Harry and leave—What's that there?" He nodded towards her hand.

"Self checking quills and a charmed hair comb," she stared at the black comb and raised her eyebrow, "Supposedly _charmed_ comb."

"Hey, if that thing doesn't work—you can always sue," he said cheerfully.

"Without hesitation," she grinned. After stealing one last look out the window she turned to him again, "All ready?"

"Yeah." With a depressed sigh he placed the sweets on a random shelf and followed Hermione as they searched for Harry.

**ooo**

After several minutes, the three exited the store and took in a deep breath of the night air. The rain has ceased and now all that was left was the slight breeze. Hermione slipped her quill and comb into her bag and gently placed her beaded bag into the bag of books she had received earlier that day. With a satisfied sigh, she linked her arms with Harry and Ron's.

The streets had calmed, now only several other Hogwarts students walking around. She walked with very little direction—however Harry and Ron gave her a shield like feeling. She felt protected with them. The gears in her head began to roll automatically at the thoughts of their six years together. Although the many happy times they had been through, the thought of each year getting worse caused a frown to fall upon her lips. Oh, how she had prayed for the years to become easier. She blinked and felt herself holding her arms tighter around theirs. The sentences of the books she had read prior to that moment began to recite. She breathed in easily knowing hatred for muggles did not run through her friends minds.

"What's Malfoy think he's doing?" Ron hissed with blue eyes toward the street to Knockturn Alley. The blonde hair disappearing from their eyes.

Their arms separated as Harry pulled his cloak from the inside of his coat, looking forward and back before pulling it over the three. Quickly he explained in a low voice as they moved together towards Knockurn Alley. "Dumbledore told me to keep the cloak at all times."

"Wise idea," Hermione whispered as they hurriedly moved towards Draco. In between two stores, they moved down a short flight of stairs and. She felt drops of water slip through the cloak, staring up she noticed the roof of one store was elevated so close down to them—the aftermath of rain still dripping.

"Why is he alone?" Ron asked.

"He's never alone like this," Harry pursed his lips and pushed his glasses farther up north.

Draco entered a store and closed the door behind him, locking it with his wand. An plump, short old man stepped towards him.

"Borgin and Burkes," Ron breathed as they began to get dangerously close to the window, "My dad told me about this place. Just some strange, dark, or unusual objects stored here for sell."

"I can't see a damn thing," Harry spat.

Draco's back was to them. He rolled his shoulders back as he sent the old man around the store; rummaging through the shelf that leaned against the far end wall, he had tippy toed as if in a rush. There was nothing proving he wasn't as he ran throughout the store. Draco's left arm rose, his hand running through his hair as he then crossed his arms. His leg pulled back and he kicked impatiently at the nearest table to him. Hermione could feel Harry's fist clench beside her. Ignoring it she watched on, keeping her eyes straight on the Slytherin and her breath balanced.

Suddenly the atmosphere changed in the store, the plump old man's chubby fingers pointing upwards at Draco's face. Nothing less than a scowl over his face. The lack of hair on his head had made it a slightly amusing sight. However, Draco seemed to think otherwise. He pulled over his left arm and bent closer to him, his arm outstretched. What was he _doing_? The old man's facial expression changed and silently he pulled his hand back down at his side, stepping aside as Draco observed a closet. In a few short minutes, Draco pulled his eyes away and back at the man, pulling a pouch from his pocket and placed it on the table closest to the old man. With that, he left, making his way back to Diagon Alley.

"Did he buy something?" Ron's confused tone was the first to break the silence. The three stared long before looking away from the window.

"Looks like any regular pouch from Gringotts," Harry pulled his own bank pouch from his pocket, then shoved it back in.

"First, the book, and now—searching dark objects," Hermione pinched the bridge of his nose, "Malfoy's sudden interest in the dark arts is beginning to give me a headache."

"Why do I feel like we wasted our time?" Harry pulled the cloak off of them a cool breeze greeting them eerily.

"Because we did," Ron began walk the path towards Diagon Alley, "And quite frankly—I'd rather not waste any more time, let's get going. I'm hungry. Tired. And I think I'm starting to smell."

The attempt at a joke received forced smiles. Harry followed Ron and sighed. Muttering the words; "_It just doesn't make sense_."

It occurred to Hermione that nothing was making much sense anymore. She took a step back from the two and slipped into the store. It was dimly lit, the fire place roaring and providing most of the light. She narrowed her eyes in attempt to search the place clearly. The old man cleared his throat from behind one of the long tables that were presented before them. She smiled, her cheeks reddening a bit.

"You don't belong here," his voice was gruff.

"I'm just looking around for something to buy," she said innocently.

"We've closed."

"But…please, it's my mother's birthday and she's just dying for something magnificent," the lie was smooth from her lips, "She collects,"—she stared at the skull above the fireplace, a jewel in its eye—"Skulls."

"Skulls?" The store keeper raised an eyebrow but then shook his head, "Very well."

"Anything that was once possessed?" She licked her dry lips.

"I just collect them and bring them here—I don't research these items, sweetheart," he said as he polished the jewels on the necklace in his hands. The pouch Draco had set down before he left was now laying on the table before the man.

"That necklace?" She moved closer towards him, "You think my mother would like that?"

"To put on her neckless skulls?" His voice dripped of sarcasm.

"She's a rather strange woman," she shrugged, her pulse seeming to quicken as his eyes flashed up at her.

"I've had enough." He pulled his wand from the table and pointed at the door, the door opening with full force and banging against the wall behind it. "We. Are. Closed."

She made one last mental image of the necklace and gripped her bag with her balled up fist and left the store without a protest. Her feet hit the ground hard as she noticed her friends left Knockturn Alley completely. Unsuccessful as she was lonely. Her interest in what Draco was doing was beginning to grow stronger by the second, the air she breathed seemed to be thin as she tried to make sense of the situation. Draco Malfoy was always one-sided; nasty, vile, ignorant and _childish_. It was hard to believe he had advanced in his ways in one summer. That he had matured and picked up the Dark Arts as a hobby. The Dark Arts was hardly a hobby—more of a crime. And that seemed to fit the situation well.

As she made her way through the two stores that created the essential path to Knockturn Alley, she was careful not to touch the walls—afraid of the dirt and grime to rub off on her robes. Her eyes were kept straight, the worries of the future clouding her vision. The sentences from **_The History of Magic_** had began to resurface. Weak, unworthy muggles.

* * *

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	6. Five: Hide and Seek

hello there !

well here are the point of views of Harry and Ron. A little argument :)

_**THANK YOU**_ to the reviewers, favoriters, and anyone who had story alerted me. Please--if you read, **_review_**_. _

**DISCLAIMER;** I do _not_ own harry potter. but Draco wants to do a re-count ;)

* * *

**Chapter Five**

_Hide and Seek_

Breakfast that morning had slipped right passed Harry. From waking up to Molly Weasley's voice, to the bickering of Ginny and Ron, then to the bickering between himself and Ron. Everything had just passed lightly, as if everything just flew right passed his head. And yet, it was peaceful. It was the most he could manage as the hours passed and he would be on the Hogwarts Express yet again. There was nothing more that would please him than slipping by the Hogwarts main gates and into the old castle. The old _safe_ castle. With that thought he took a slow and steady intake of air; he pushed his glasses farther up north and blinked.

The breakfast table was remotely quiet that morning; and in the house of Weasley's it was rather odd. Harry scanned the table with his head held low, from Ginny to Ron, to Hermione, and lastly the twins; Fred and George. Ron's eating habits were normal—with crumbs falling from his mouth and blue eyes moving from object to object in the room. Ginny had seemed slightly sheepish, her eyes avoided Harry's for the most part of the morning and when they did catch the same eye level her lips twitched into a slight smile like manner. The twins had worked hard the night before, their eyes puffy and shoulders slouched. Hermione glanced at the newspaper Mr. Weasley laid out on the table before leaving for work—her brown eyes staring only for a few seconds, just to pull away and back at her food. To call the morning awkward would be an understatement.

"So, this Professor Slughorn person," Ron started, crumbs from his toast falling from his mouth, "You think he'll be a good defense teacher?"

Harry noticed Ginny sigh of relief as the words were spoken. She resumed to eating again, a small twitch playing about on her lips again. She looked up slowly, meeting his eyes lazily. His glasses lowered in the time passing and he was unsure if Ginny looked him in the eye or not. Pushing them back up again he picked up his cup of pumpkin juice and looked at Ron.

"Dumbledore did mention he tried to bring Slughorn back into Hogwarts for quite some time," Harry said softly, bringing his glass cup to his lips, "Must be bloody good at defense against the dark arts."

"Better than Umbridge," Ginny said with a bit of a smirk.

"How old is he anyways?" Ron asked.

"Old enough to teach my mother," Harry shrugged, "But I'll say maybe even before my mother."

"Professor Slughorn will be returning to Hogwarts?" Molly spoke from behind the kitchen counter, her head poking towards the table.

"Has he taught you too mum?" Ginny asked with a turned head.

"Oh, yes," Molly nodded and began to walk towards the table, placing a second plate of scrambled eggs and toast on the table—Ron being the first to slip more on his plate, "He was a bit nutty, that man. He had this thing called the _shelf_. Put all his favorite students there. And all of them had excelled in their careers."

"Have you made the shelf?" Ron asked, his mouth full. Hermione grimaced.

"No," she blushed, her thin lips now pursed to a line, "Lily did. Harry, your mother was quite the witch."

Harry smiled proudly. "Slughorn showed me a picture when Dumbledore and I visited."

"Oh yeah?" Ron grinned, a nod following.

His encounter with Professor Slughorn was strange; the man held a certain look in his eyes directed to Harry—a obsessive look, even. His lips were thin and his nose was hooked, leading up to his pale blue eyes that were lined with white eyelashes. Harry had tried to imagine Slughorn teaching potions to his mother—and his mother being the top of the class. It was too easy and made him feel a surge of delight pass his veins.

"Hermione, your quiet this morning," Ron pointed out after finishing his cup of orange juice. He leaned back in his chair and turned his head towards his friend. "Spent all night reading again, huh?"

Harry watched intently as Hermione opened her mouth, and closed it within the same second. She shook her head and shrugged, a crunch was Ronald's answer as she bit into her buttered toast. Ron eyed suspiciously at her, opening his mouth a collection of unintelligible words slipped. Harry just shook his head, waving his hand as if to say; _just leave her alone_.

However he could only imagine how difficult it would be for Ron to just leave her alone. But yet, Ron closed his mouth and crossed his arms.

"Ready for your fifth year Ginny?" Harry then asked.

"Excited, really," Ginny smiled.

Harry was unsure whether the smile was sincere or not. From what he gathered—everyone had been talking about Hogwarts with the utmost respect, happiness and trust, all to ensure Molly that her children were safe. But he had noticed the _Daily Prophet_ put Hogwarts front page, an article on how Hogwarts was definitely not _safe_. However beside the _Daily Prophet_ lay the _Quibbler_, the side of the magazine lined with certain charms and spells cast upon the castle to ensure students safety. And that alone was still not enough for Molly.

But enough to keep her quiet until the children left, Harry thought. Normally—being surrounded by the Weasley family left him with a slight bitter taste in his mouth. The full family was something he lacked. It was somewhat hard pill to swallow when he'd see the family photo's in the living room, or when he'd be the person who took those photo's. However today, none of that bothered him. He had felt part of the family for quite some time and from time to time it would hit him at different moments. But today was the first day of _school_. That fact alone was everything he ever needed to get through the morning.

**ooo**

"Have you got everything, Ronald?" His mothers was beginning to fade as the train started to howl.

"Yes, mum."

"Ginny—are you all set as well?"

Ron turned to his sister as she nodded and replied just as he did. He could feel the train push and pull, all signs of rolling forward. He leaned closer to his mother, pushing his upper body out of the train's window. Parents were scrambling to the windows of the train, several '_I love _you's,' and '_be good in school,_' were the firsts he could hear. His mother followed traditionally on her short lecture to not cause trouble at Hogwarts and to watch out after each other. Ron blushed slightly and turned to Harry; trouble followed them, so he didn't promise his mother anything. There was one last; "_All aboard!"_ that came from the conductor's rather loud and booming voice.

"Harry, please take care of yourself," Molly frowned playfully.

"Will do, Mrs. Weasley."

"And Hermione, please—smile," Molly's lips pouted, "Your starting to make me worried.

Ron glanced sideways at Hermione, who's head was poking out of the window. A small smile escaped her lips and he could've sworn it was the first she's cracked one since their trip down Knockturn Alley. However he didn't dwell on it and bade his mother goodbye.

Steam began to pass them, the train gradually pulling forward. Molly made a whimpering sound however the sound the train was giving off made it hard for Ron to be so sure of what he heard. Her mouth was moving and her legs were moving forward, waving goodbye to her kids and blowing kisses at them. He could faintly make out the "_I love you." _

Ron pulled himself from the window as the train picked up speed and his hair had fallen over his eyes. He walked forward and bumped into Hermione, his hands falling about to her waist and a clumsy smile on his lips. Her hair and caught in between his lips and quickly he pulled it away, her slightly floral crisp scent wafting into her nose. He could already feel the way his ears reddened.

"Honestly Ronald," Hermione turned to him with a sigh, "I think it's time for a haircut." She brushed the hair from his eyes and shook her head, her fingertips grazed against his skin and he could faintly make out the way he breathed. All their lives, there was something about her that made him nervous. Her ability to touch him at random moments were one of the things that made him nervous. Her ability to correct his homework with just one look—was always nerve wracking. He vowed he'd get his studies right this year, show her that he wasn't as helpless as he used to be.

"Alright, now," She nodded forwards, "Let's get a booth when we've got the chance."

He nodded and swallowed. As she walked forward he took two steps back, allowing Harry to pass him. The distance between him and Hermione would easily ease him down. Taking a breath he began conversing with Harry about Quidditch.

"Can't wait for try outs," Ron grinned, "With you as captian—I could--,"

"Wait a second," Harry stopped as they reached an empty booth, leaning against the door frame, "I hope you're not thinking I'm just going to give you the spot as keeper, do you?"

"Well why the hell not?" Ron crossed his arms pushing passed Harry and taking the seat closest to the door.

"Oh come on Ron," Hermione had already took her usual seat against the window, her hands rummaging through her small beaded bag.

"I'm an alright keeper," Ron shrugged, "And Harry's my best mate—why won't I get the spot?"

"You are," Harry said awkwardly taking the seat across from Hermione, "My best mate I mean."

"How about a keeper?" Ron raised his eyebrows, slowly feeling a bit insulted by the second.

"Well you are a good keeper," Harry began to take an interest in the pull out divider on the cushioned seats.

"But you're going to have to win it, just like everyone else," Hermione interjected.

Harry shot Hermione a grateful smile. Ron, however, didn't leave it alone. "You two suppose I won't get it, huh?"

"We didn't say that," Hermione said, her eyes flashing away from the window and toward the red head.

"I want you on the team as much as you do, really," Harry's green eyes blinked blankly as he looked out of the glass doors that separated them from the other students. He watched as Ginny passed, her hand in Dean Thomas' hand.

"What about her, Harry?" Ron said bitterly, "Will she get a spot on the Quidditch team by _talent_ or by default?"

"Oh, don't go there," Hermione pulled a book from her bag.

"Or I suppose both," He spat.

"Your sister is just as good as you are," Harry tried.

"I bet you already have it in your mind she'll take some spot on the team," Ron mumbled.

"She'll try out just like everyone else," Hermione flipped through the pages.

"Yeah," Ron crossed his arms, "right."

"Ron, please, stop," Hermione looked up at him, "Don't get pissy."

"Oh yeah?" He glared at her, "Whatever. Take his side, as _always_."

Hermione closed her book with an exasperated sigh. She looked like she opted to say something, however she just slipped the book back into her bag. With one last look at Ronald she stood up and headed for the door. He regretted his choice of words instantly as she slipped passed him and Harry and out the door.

Harry rolled his eyes and half heartedly shove Ron back against the back board. "Must you always scare her away?"

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	7. Six: Fresh

hello there !

a bit of a filler chapter for Draco's part.

_**THANK YOU**_ to the reviewers, favoriters, and anyone who had story alerted me. Please--if you read, **_review_**_. _

**DISCLAIMER;** I do _not_ own harry potter. but Draco wants to do a re-count ;)

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**Chapter Six**

_Fresh_

The familiar howl of the Hogwarts Express entered Draco's ears; the slight tug and pull of the train and the steam rolling passed the windows of the train. In his seat, he could feel the smooth breeze of the air passing, slipping into the train and running through his hair. All in all, the ride back to school was refreshing. Everything was real. Familiar. Something he could _handle_. The students and the level in which he stood that intimidated them all. It was _old_. He was strong here. He was alive, here. However he was also alone here. Sitting in a booth by himself. But oh, how solitude felt so good.

He scratched his forearm and leaned his head against the window. The air was slipping through the crack and hit his cheeks furiously as the train gained speed. Platform 9 ¾ was now escaping him. His eyes were staring forward, away from the platform, and the families that stood on it. As the train passed, he could just make out the red hair from the Weasley's—watching as Ron stuck half his body out of the window to wave goodbye. A slow twisting turn went off in his stomach, an uneasy feeling—jealously. There was no other platinum blonde in that area. No one but him. No mother. No father. Just one Malfoy.

Over the train's howl, he could make out the several _'I love you's_,' and '_Behave_'s' being last said as the train entered the tunnel.

Bitterness fled through his veins. He closed his eyes, letting the reds of the Weasley family evaporate. He hadn't seen much of his father that day, and caught only a glimpse of his mother. It was as if he was a stranger in his own home. But he held his head up high—just like any Malfoy would, and exited the manor, heading towards the Hogwarts Express. He couldn't help but feel as if he got the wrong end of the stick. Son to devoted death eaters, follower of Voldermort at sixteen, and enemy of the boy who lived. He was bound for some horrible happening. However, he did feel sorry for the other as well.

The ones on platform 9 ¾; they all seemed remotely happy. Worries seemed to be scarce in their eyes. He felt some sort of pity for Harry Potter—he was in fact the boy who lived, and will eventually die. However after all these years the Dark Lord had plotted to kill Harry, some part of him felt as if that was impossible. Maybe Potter was some sort of unrecognized force not to be reckoned with. Although Draco did loathe Harry, he felt quite envious. Harry had gone all his life fighting against the odds. Draco, wasn't _supposed_ to fight those odds. Inwardly he did. And that bit felt slightly inevitable. He tried not to put pressure on himself, knowing that his new found responsibility was rather heavy. Of course he was going to have trouble carrying it. However no one else hadn't made me seem that way.

He breathed. No one else really _knew_.

The more he thought about it, he had more pity for the ones he was supposed to be fighting, than himself. All the muggles, half-breeds, and blood traitors. People like Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. He sighed. Hermione Granger. He wished that sometime along this year she'd suddenly become a pureblood out of some distant family relation. She was smarter than him. She was cleverer. She was swifter. She was stronger willed than he was. From what he gathered, she was rather graceful and had a way with words. She was even pretty in the traditional sense of the way. And yet, all this had no effect. She was still a muggle born. She would still end up dead by the end of it all. At least, that _was_ the plan, the side-plan. Extermination and control over the muggles. As well as the boy who lived.

With more thought, Draco felt some sort of pull at the corner of his lips, the frown finding some way to slip even further. All the plans he knew—all the things he was trusted to fulfill; he could only imagine Hogwarts fall. The wizarding world—fall. The muggles tortured. He knew it all. And for that, Draco felt horrible.

However, Draco tried. He truly did. To embrace the future. And find happiness in his present. He tried to forget his past—his childhood, and days at Hogwarts. He truly _did_ try to hate muggles. But it was as if he hadn't tried hard enough. Inwardly he blamed himself, for the slight guilt that burdened him and incapability to direct his emotions elsewhere.

Eyes opening, he took a rather long intake of air. Holding it in a bit as his eyes adjusted to the light of the train. Exhaling he surveyed his booth, both sides of the booth seats were scarce. There was a breeze and a creak that alarmed him—his eyes moving from the window to the door. He sighed, noticing the door had opened slightly. Closing it with much force, he noticed a few of his Slytherin classmates pass him. He stood tall and allowed his neck to straighten gently, his lips in a fine line. He watched as Pansy Parkinson smiled a slightly nervous smile—and Blaise Zabini following, leaving Draco with a nod for his greeting. He pulled the blinds down before he was recognized alone. It was rather distasteful for a Malfoy to be alone.

A sour feel in his mouth resurfaced; it was rather distasteful to be a beast, as well.

He licked his lips and pulled a book from the top shelf in the booth; his fingertips resting heavily on the thick cover and with a pull, the book fell from the booth and into his unoccupied hand. The lighting around him changed as the train pulled from the long tunnel, the natural light of the sun and the light from his booth had mixed. The light seemed to have absorbed in his black blazer and caused the buttons on the blazer to shine. The gold looked lovely with the light—he brushed the buttons before setting himself back down on the corner seat, leaning against the window he slowly opened the book. The metallic lettering of the book gleamed at him; **_History of the Dark Arts._**

The book, much like its contents, had a rather dark author. Draco's fingertips lingered on the fine script written on the first page, and with little effort he slipped the page between his fingers and went passed them. Over and over he repeated the fashion, skimming the pages at the words he had underlined prior to the train ride.

_…Unworthy muggles…_

_…Mudbloods…_

_…Avada Kedavra…_

He slipped hand to his back pocket, pulling his wand out and into his hand. With his eyes on the book and his wand in his hand, he began to move it—as if he were about to cast a spell. And with a soft whisper he spoke; "_Avada Kedavra._" He tried to imagine someone in front of him. An unworthy muggle, he thought. He pointed his wand and whispered it once again, as if it were a secret being told to someone else. But as the tip of his wand illuminate a certain green color, and released only slightly to touch the couch in front of him, he knew he was alone. The green returned back into his wand and spiraled its way back into the tip. Quickly it disappeared.

He leaned his elbow against the book and rubbed his temples, his hand holding the wand resting on his knee. Hair curtained his face as he lowered his head, with a blow the hair escaped his left eye to slip over his right eye.

He allowed his silver eyes to slowly fall to his book once again, reading over _Avada Kedavra_, and felt uneasy. Draco Malfoy was no killer. And with that, disappointment and guilt ran through his veins.

Setting his book down and his wand back in his pocket, he stretched his legs out in front of him, laying them on the couch and resting his head against the window. The air was slipping from the crack, and yet again hit him once again on his cheek. He closed his eyes and indulged in the fresh air. Slow deep breaths. And quickly—a slow, deep slumber.

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	8. Seven: Use Somebody

Soo sorry how late this has taken me to update. School has taken a toll on my life - and a new job as well ; along with getting grounded a couple of times. But other then that--here is the new update. Chapter Seven is in Hermione's point of view, finally some sort of contact with lovely lovely Malfoy. I hope you guys are still interested in this :D

**DISCLAIMER**; i don't own anything. - but Draco would very much like a recount on his owner ;)

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**Chapter Seven**

Use Somebody

"Ron, please, stop," Hermione looked up at Ron, his ears already turning red, "Don't get pissy."

"Oh yeah?" He glared back at her, "Whatever. Take his side, as _always_."

Hermione closed her book with an exasperated sigh. She looked like she opted to say something; however she just slipped the book back into her bag, her wand in between the pages to keep its place. With one last look at Ronald she stood up and headed for the door. He regretted his choice of words instantly as she slipped passed him and Harry and out the door.

Hermione's fingers were wrapped around the strap of her bag. She could feel her fingers tighten as she walked out of the booth, passing booth by booth and getting further away from her friends. She tried to keep her mind clear of Ron, or Harry's awkward need to please his friends. She tried to rid of the bitterness that evolved at the silly fight over Quidditch. Of all the things in the world—Quidditch. For that thought, her hand had now consumed her wand more tightly. _Stupid Quidditch_, she thought, _Stupid Ronald_.

It was as if she had been breathing fire. Walking down the Hogwarts Express, without little direction, had seemed to create a certain type of uneasiness in her system. Harry and Ron had been her immediate friends—best friends—and even the only friends she really preferred to talk too. They were fairly easy to talk too. On good days she'd read her book, Ron'd talk about Quidditch, and Harry'd happily listen. There were times where Harry'd go on about Voldermort—Ron would be silent as ever and Hermione would put her best input. And then, on times like these; the _bad_ days, Hermione would step in a argument between Harry and Ron, and Ron would quickly snap. However today ended slightly different. This argument his snap seemed to sting. Her usual quick comebacks and ability to prolong the argument did not surface.

But oh, how it was useless to walk out of that booth.

She had the option to head back to the booth, and endure the silence that came with the arguments but her mindset was to teach Ron a lesson—it was that or to keep walking forward without much of a plan. Her lack of direction was beginning to worry her. She had far too much pride to slip into the booth she had just escaped from. She drew a breath and kept walking, the book under her arm was tightly firm in between her body and arm—and her other hand gripping her wand. She loosened her grip and slipped it into her side pocket of her sweater. Discreetly she glanced at every booth, most of which were full or taken. She passed Ginny, pulling her eyes away as Dean reached for Ginny's hand as Luna and Neville spoke freely. She passed a couple of Ravenclaw students, her interest in walking lessening by the second.

She passed the sweet trolley, ignoring the clench in her stomach as the smell of sweets wafted into her nose. She absentmindedly swiped her finger under her nose, as if doing so would excuse the smell. She sighed and took two steps back, staring at the assortment of candy and cakes before her.

"Anything from the trolley, dear?"

She smiled at the familiar blue eyes of the trolley lady and nodded. The old woman began to list off her best sellers, and her personal favorites.

"One cauldron cake," Hermione slipped two sickles out of her pocket and into the woman's hand. Quickly she departed, holding the cauldron cake in her hand with eyes set forward. She hoped to find an empty booth—a place where she'd be able to read and eat her cake in peace. However the most she walked forward the more she noticed all booths were taken. She began to now hope for a booth with only one person—meeting someone new wouldn't mind her.

She sighed and stopped at the slim door that opened to a bathroom. She looked both ways at the clear path she had just taken and slipped into the bathroom. With the flick of her wrist, she closed the door and watched as lock clicked itself into a secure fashion. A light went off in the middle of the bathroom, flickering itself into life. She sat on the toilet, settling her bag beside it then unraveled her cauldron cake and bit into it—the sweet chocolately taste had been a bit bitter there, in the bathroom. She'd much rather company. However she wouldn't admit that. She refused.

Gradually standing up, she moved towards the sink. She set down the cauldron cake on the edge of the sink, moved her fingers to the faucet knobs and watched as water began to pour into the sink. She gripped the sides for support. The porcelain sink was spotless, her face reflected off the faucet—an image of unkempt curls, loosely falling from the bun she tightly wrapped earlier, honey brown eyes, blinking and the fine line her lips made as she observed herself. She pursed her lips and sighed. She could feel the train pull faster as a slight tug pulled her body to the left. She gripped tighter and watched as the cauldron cake slid into the sink. The water hit it and quickly, the water, along with the cake disappeared. _Poof_.

There was very little acknowledgment to the disappearing cauldron cake. Hermione's mind was elsewhere. A collection of thoughts moving, cycling around her mind. Thoughts from Ron, to Harry, to her parents, to teachers at Hogwarts. Thoughts of them, to thoughts of death, magic, and Draco. Oh, Draco. She sighed with hints of indifference. Thoughts of Draco were always very vague.

A knock, had ringed in the air—getting louder within each knock, sounded very impatient. She shifted her weight and turned to look at the door. She couldn't hide in the

bathroom the whole ride to Hogwarts. However, she had nowhere to go. Nowhere she'd prefer to go. Quickly she shut off the water, and with two more knocks it stopped. A slightly frustrated grunt had let out and steps were heard—walking off in a direction she couldn't fully register. Nevertheless she didn't care; she needed to get out.

She picked up her bag from beside the toilet and gripped it in her right hand, allowing her left hand to pull her book out of the bag. Her fingers slipped into the pages, pulling her wand from the page. With the wand in her hand she tapped the page she left her wand in, a small silver light coming from the tip of the wand had stretched throughout the book and had vanished—allowing for the page to keep its place. She pushed the book back into her bag and pulled the strap of her bag over her head, keeping her wand in her hand.

"Stupid Ron," she muttered, pulling the tip of the wand to her head, and quickly casted a _disillusionment charm_ on herself. A wave of a chill went through her body—solely going down her spine. Instantly she was invisible.

Slowly she moved to the door of the bathroom, flicking her wand to the light switch. The lights went off and slowly she opened the door—just a crack to check the aisles.

"Clear," she whispered to herself.

Gradually she slipped her body out of the bathroom and into the aisle—walking swiftly, keeping her eyes open for empty booths. However her eyes had met with booths with groups in them; students from Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Gryffindor. Some were couples, wrapped up in each other. But none were alone. And that's what she needed the most.

"Have you seen Draco?"

The mention of Draco's name had Hermione turn back to the students of Slytherin. Pansy Parkinson, a dark brunette whom resembled very much of a pug and Blaise Zabini. Beautiful pure bloods. She moved further before they would bump into her and noticed an individual in a booth. Alone. It was enough, she thought. Quickly, as they walked closer, she slipped into the booth and took a seat against the window with her hands gripping tight to the edge of her seat and her eyes still on the upcoming Slytherins. They paused at her booth and her breath hitched. Pansy's brown eyes had gone right passed Hermione, a small nervous smile on her lips. She was…nervous.

Hermione turned to see the cause of Pansy's reaction, a slow intake of oxygen filled her lungs as she observed him. Platinum blonde hair, gelled back to perfection—a rather defined face, free of lines of any sort. Lips remained unmoved, despite the small smile from Pansy. Draco Malfoy showed very little emotion. Slowly he got up and closed the door, a slight awkward moment filled the air as Pansy stayed there—catching his attention fully. He nodded to them and they moved. Hermione caught Blaise's hand press into Pansy's back, urging her to move. With hesitation, Hermione turned her direction to Draco, his body moving closer towards her. Heartbeats began to echo in her head, a very faint pound in her ears. She needed to breathe out—but the closer she got, the harder she tried to hold it in.

His arms reached above her, the top shelf on her side of the booth. He moved closer, his white button down shirt slowly grazing the tip of her nose. She closed her eyes tightly as she heard the sound of movement above her. Everything felt to move slowly. She gripped the edge of her seat tighter, aware of every noise her body made. Could Draco hear her heartbeat, as she did?

Footsteps were heard, and a slow sound of getting settled occurred. She opened her eyes gradually—noticing Draco took a seat before her, leaning his feet on her side of the booth. Black clean shoes stared back at her, shining—but showing no reflection back. At this, she breathed out a sigh of relief. She eased into her seat, listening as the train howled and it's speed grew faster. The trees outside the window passed so quickly, they looked almost like a green and brown blur. She moved her gaze back at Draco, whom seemed to be buried in a book. A position Hermione knew well, eyes so close to the pages, fingers slipped between the next page and the current page, ready to move the current page. However, unlike Hermione, Draco took a rather long time on one page—eye brows knit in some sort of frustration. She moved closer to him, willing to catch a glimpse of the book title, breathing slowly. A distracting scent wafted into her nose. The scent of Draco. A clean, soft, but crisp scent. The scent of freshly clean linen and a hint of…

"_Avada Kedavra._"

She didn't have time to distinguish his scent. She moved so far back against her seat, her fear interrupted her current thoughts. A stomach turning fear. She watched as a green flash of light escaped his wand, and touch the cough before Draco—reaching no contact it spiraled back into his wand. She couldn't ease into this, there was no ignoring it. The killing curse had her feeling paranoid. She was the target to every pureblood's plan. She was an unworthy muggle. She was the enemy. And yet, she couldn't move her eyes away from Draco. Breathing rather deeply, his hands shaking as he put his wand away. She couldn't ignore him, she was interested. Deeply interested. But she was his enemy, as well was he was her enemy. There was no amount of time the disillusionment charm could buy her to ignore that. And with that she took the time to her advantage, she sat patiently in her seat watching Draco, knowing that magic was the other way these two would be in the same place—so close, so together.


End file.
